A Letter to the Editor
by njbrennan
Summary: Set a few years after the wedding-that-wasn't, Edith Crawley is living in London and working as the Editor-in-Chief of "The Sketch." Every month, like clockwork, she receives a letter to the editor from an anonymous source, a man writing love letters to a woman from his past. But when she investigates this mystery man's identity, Edith gets more than she bargained for. COMPLETE!
1. The Admirer

Author's Note: So, apparently, even when I want to focus on my numerous unfinished stories, my brain teases me with other ideas and won't let me focus on anything else! This is just a two-shot, so hopefully, after this, I'll get right back to my other stories, tout de suite!

In this story, let's pretend that Edith rose through the ranks of _The Sketch_ , but that she never had an affair with Michael Gregson. Set a few years after Anthony jilted her, Edith is living in London and is the editor-in-chief of _The Sketch_.

Enjoy!

* * *

Lady Edith Crawley had her nose buried in the sunrise edition of _The Sketch_ as she made her way to her office, checking to see if her copy editors had earned their paycheck that week. They had, but her scrutinizing eye never rested.

The offices of _The Sketch_ were bustling that morning; phones were ringing off the hook, reporters were furiously typing articles on their typewriters, and the air was filled with cigarette smoke. Edith couldn't get enough of the energy of this place, even now, even two years after first coming here.

She wove around reporters' desk, glancing over her newspaper to inspect their work, arching an eyebrow here and there in the direction of those naughty reporters taking it easy that morning. The news stops for no man, she often quipped. Her staff, mostly male, had been surprisingly supportive of their female editor-in-chief. Many of them were eager to please the woman they had secretly and endearingly dubbed "The Lady of _The Sketch_."

Making her way into her sun-drenched office, Edith shrugged off her coat and hat and settled at her desk. She barely had a moment to breathe before her secretary, a young girl named Sadie, with tight, dark curls and dimpled cheeks, bustled into the office with phone messages and letters.

"Morning, m'lady," Sadie announced as she dropped off the slips and went to the corner of the room to prepare a cuppa for her boss. "A few messages were left for you this morning. And your solicitor wrote back concerning the allegations of libel; he thinks they're unfounded, but he's ready to fight it if you are."

Edith gratefully accepted the tea and sipped at it. "Thank you, Sadie. But how many times do I have to tell you to call me Edith?" she asked with gentle sternness that was obvious to anyone listening that she wasn't really being stern at all.

Sadie's cheeks flushed. "I'm sorry, m'l—I mean, Edith. Old habits and such."

"Not to worry," the editor smiled before turning her attention to the message left for her that morning. She had expected that her secretary would busy herself with other pressing tasks, but when Edith glanced up from her tea and her messages, she saw that Sadie was still standing in her office.

"Is there something else, Sadie?" she inquired.

"It's just that…well, we received another letter," the secretary explained, her voice giddy, nearly bursting at the seams. "It's from the Admirer."

Edith's face brightened. "Really?" she gasped with excitement. "Might I see it?"

Sadie didn't need to be told twice; she scurried out of the room and returned just a few seconds later with a cream envelope, giving it to her boss's outstretched and eager hand. Typed on the front, it merely read: _To the Editor-in-Chief of_ The Sketch _Magazine_.

For almost a year, a mysterious man had been sending letters to _The Sketch_ , his words spoken directly to a woman whom he had loved and lost many years ago. His first letter had been published, almost by accident, on a slow news day last May, simply a method of filling white space in their magazine. But within hours, telephone calls poured into the office from women demanding to know who this man was, pressing the staff for the publication date of his next letter. Perhaps these women wanted to believe that a long-lost lover of theirs was writing directly to them after years of pining, or perhaps the mere notion that a man so fiercely loved a woman was intoxicating in its own way, but overnight, the anonymous man and his letters became the talk of London.

The Admirer, as he was so aptly named by the female reporters at _The Sketch_ , had become a staple in the magazine _._ Every month, like clockwork, he would send a typed letter addressed only to the editor-in-chief. He spoke of his undying love for this woman, of his immense sorrow for having wronged her in the past, of his hope that one day, she could forgive him. Whenever his letters appeared, _The Sketch_ was sold out within an hour; unrequited love was apparently the hottest commodity.

And although copycats inevitably surfaced, no one but Edith knew that the Admirer's letters were always accompanied by a dried, purple hyacinth. The flower looked as though it had been pressed in between the pages of a thick book. Old-fashioned though it was, the purple hyacinth was his marker, his modus operandi, his calling card.

Today, as she opened the letter addressed to her, Edith grinned as she saw a purple hyacinth fall out of the envelope and land on her desk. It smelled heavenly, even though it had been pressed between the pages of a book for God knows how long. She thought it fitting of a man who had so much love confined and bottled in his heart.

"Well, what does it say?" Sadie prodded keenly, inching closer to her boss's desk for a glimpse of the Admirer's words. She, like most women in London, was an avid reader of the Admirer's monthly letters. Nearly all of her friends had grown immensely envious that she was able to see the originals firsthand. A few had even attempted to bribe her for one.

With her secretary growing more anxious by the second, Edith cleared her throat and read aloud:

 _My darling,_

 _I saw you last night. Not just in my dreams, where you have visited me every night for years, whispering sweet-nothings I don't deserve with your lips pressed against my ear, but this time, with my own eyes._

 _You were a vision. Although a crowd separated us and your gaze was fixed on something more deserving, I could see the smile I have longed to see, even in passing, even in my dreams, since that fateful day. It was as beautiful as I had remembered. And yet, as I reflect on the gift that fate or luck or the Almighty gave me last night in the form of a fleeting glimpse of your face on a crowded London street, I realize that you are even more beautiful now than I had remembered._

 _You, my darling, have blossomed. You have come into your own, a woman so sure and so confident that all the beauty that lives inside of you radiates through you. You were always beautiful to me; now, the rest of the world can see what I have always known to be true._

 _After nights such as last, I realize that I miss you. The feeling persists daily, a low hum of want that makes my heart ache at all hours of night and day. But there are times when it grips me, when I realize just how much I miss you, how much I long to hear your voice telling me that you love me, how much I wished things could have been different. That_ I _could have been different. In those moments, only faded memories of you see me through. Only thoughts of your eyes give me comfort. Only dreams of our children playing in the fields around our home bring me solace._

 _You were so close last night. Mere yards away. And yet, you are further from me now than ever before._

 _I pray that this letter finds you, that you are happy and well, and that you know that I will always love you._

 _Always,_

 _Your Gentleman_

When Edith finished reading, both she and Sadie had tears welling up in their eyes. Demurely, they fished into their handbags for a handkerchief to dab away the saltwater before it ran down their cheeks.

As they shared a glance with one another in such a state, the two women couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"Silly, isn't it?" Edith managed through teary chuckles. She seldom cried; although, a brief catharsis always seemed to coincide with the arrival of the Admirer's letters. "We don't even know these people!"

Sadie nodded her head before blowing her nose. "I'm not even as invested in my own love life!"

When their tears had retreated, Edith handed the letter to Sadie. "Send this to the copy editors and tell them to get it ready for print for tomorrow morning's edition. I don't want substance altered at all. The Admirer's letter gets printed verbatim, understood?"

"Absolutely, boss!"

"Wonderful. And let them know that, unless another huge story breaks, this is getting printed on the first page," Edith explained as she returned to her tea and skimmed the messages left for her. "I want the Admirer's Darling to see this, wherever she is."

* * *

Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed the beginning of this! I hope to have it finished by this weekend. I'd love to hear your thoughts about it if you can spare the time :D


	2. Courier Clues

The next morning, as the sun peaked over the city skyline and Londoners rolled out of bed to start a new day, _The Sketch_ hit paper stands with one very lonely gentleman's words gracing the front page.

As expected, the magazine was sold out across the city within the hour. Women gobbled up the story as if the Admirer were speaking to them and them alone, and men bought it on the sly, reading it in secret, hoping to learn some pointers from this mysterious man about what exactly women wanted.

Lady Edith Crawley was sitting in her office, reading the Admirer's letter for what had to be the ninetieth time, pleased with herself for the magazine's success, when a man in a pinstriped suit knocked on her door.

"Morning, m'lady," he greeted her as his knuckles tapped the wood of the doorframe. His name was Peregrine Marwood, _The Sketch's_ chairman of the board, a tall man not much older than the editor, with short, brown hair and a limp he had earned during the War. Edith answered to few people in her realm of stories and typewriters and ink, but Perry Marwood and his band of board members were among them.

"Good morning, Mr. Marwood," Edith said with a smile, setting down her copy of the morning edition to focus on him. Perry seldom paid her a visit. This habit, however, was not won without some strife. He had been intimately involve in overseeing her when she first took the helm over a year ago, but Edith gave him a nasty lecture about paternalism and journalistic liberty, and soon, Perry took the hint. Since then, he only seemed to spot by when he had a favor to ask.

"What can I do for you this morning?"

Perry sat down across from her and took out a long cigar, lit it up, and puffed on it. Edith tried her best not to cough as the smoke filled her office. "I must say, m'lady, the rest of the Board and I are all very pleased with the sales this quarter. I heard that we had to print a second run of this morning's edition because it had sold out so quickly. Your Admirer seems to be a commodity, no doubt."

Edith kept her smile at bay; she knew how successful the magazine had become under her leadership and she didn't want Perry to think that she was unaccustomed to success.

"His letters have become very popular, yes," she stated very matter-of-factly.

"Indeed they have. Which is why I'm here, m'lady," Perry began as he looked around for an ashtray. When none was to be found, he settled for flicking the cigar on the arm of his chair. The ashes falling to the floor and Edith had to stifle a gasp. "The Board and I think it would be a tremendous idea if we could do an in-depth exposé on the Admirer. Really give the public what they want."

She looked at him curiously. "But Mr. Marwood, the Admirer is anonymous. No one, not even I, knows his true identity."

"Ah, but that's exactly why we want to run this story," he explained, leaning forward on his seat, cigar smoke pouring out of his mouth. "We want the whole world to know who he is! The sheer volume of magazines a story like that would sell would be phenomenal!"

Her eyebrow arched on her forehead as she realized what this man wanted. "You want me to uncover him, don't you? Expose him?" she asked with indignation teasing at the seems of her words. Perry was oblivious to it. "Sir, the Admirer leaves no return address. There's no way of knowing how to get in contact with him."

"Before we appointed you as the editor, you were our best investigative reporter. I'm sure a task like this will be child's play for you."

She was hesitant. Part of the draw of the Admirer was that he _was_ anonymous. It was what made him so appealing. People could imagine whomever they wanted to fill his place and speak his words. Exposing his true identity might destroy the fantasy.

Peregrine, while not overly astute, could sense her reluctance. "Look, if you won't do it, I'm sure I can find someone else to do it for you. But when your contract comes due at the end of this year, we'll have to keep in mind your…loyalties to the magazine."

Edith knew exactly what he was doing. She hated being bullied, but she cared about her job and her magazine too much to let it slip through her fingers.

"No, that's quite all right. I'll scout him out myself," she snapped. It was unlike the Earl's daughter to be so curt, and Perry soon grew to understand that he had overstayed his welcome.

He stood up and brushed rouge ashes from his suit. "Fantastic. I'll pass this information along to the Board. No deadline on this, but the sooner, the better, hmm?" he said in an annoyingly patronizing tone before taking his leave.

Although Peregrine Marwood had left to terrorize some other poor soul somewhere in London, a cloud of cigar smoke and a pile of ashes lingered in Edith's office. It would take days, maybe weeks, to get the stink out.

"Sadie," she called out to her secretary, her teeth grinding against each other. "Fetch me a broom, will you?"

* * *

Later that afternoon, after hours of meetings with her section editors and advertisers, Edith called Sadie into her office. The secretary rushed inside, a pen and a pad of paper at the ready.

"Yes, boss? You called?"

Edith stared out her window to the crowded Bloomsbury street below. "I need all of the information we have on the Admirer."

Sadie laughed out loud, but upon realizing that her boss was completely serious, she cleared her throat and straightened her posture. "Um, m'lady, you _know_ that the Admirer is anonymous. No one knows who he is."

The editor sighed. "I know that. But I've been ordered to write an exposé on him, so I need to know everything about him. Is there a particular brand of paper he uses, unique to a London seller? Are those purple hyacinths found only in certain flower markets? Anything! Any little detail!"

Sadie chewed on the tip of her pen, but stopped when Edith turned to face her. "I know as little as you do, which is that once a month on Thursdays, his letters arrive at my desk. That's about the extent of it…"

Edith's dark eyes widened. "Wait a second. _How_ do the letters arrive on your desk?" The Admirer never put stamps on his letters; perhaps having even a zip code for his post office of choice was too great a risk.

"Some mornings they're there waiting for me. Other mornings, I have to sign for them."

"So, he uses a courier service!" Edith gasped with realization, as though she had struck gold. "Oh, that's good. I can work with _that._ We can go to the courier and backpedal until we find him! Sadie, do you remember which courier service it was?"

Sadie turned a deep shade of red as she racked her brain for even a semblance of a memory. "I'm so sorry, m'lady. I sign for so many things every day. It all just blends together."

Edith slumped. It appeared that their hunt for the Admirer had reached a temporary roadblock. She sent Sadie back to her desk with the task of scouring through receipts in the hopes that she might find something about the courier service. But she knew that it was moot.

They'd just have to wait until next month to set their trap.

* * *

Precisely one month later, Edith and Sadie set their trap. It was around nine in the morning when a young courier made his way into Editor-in-Chief's office with a small envelope in his bag.

He stopped at Sadie's desk. "Morning, miss. I have a letter for the Editor-in-Chief," he said, reading off of a clipboard.

Sadie took the small, cream envelope from him, felt around its edges, and realized when her fingers found the dried, lumpy hyacinth, that the man standing in front of her had been hired by the Admirer.

"Thank you, sir," she said with a broad, flirtatious smile. Should she wink? She decided not to push it. "I'll be sure to pass this along to the Editor. Say, you have done a very nice job getting this letter here in one piece. Might I get your employer's address so I can send along a word of thanks? I'm sure a young man like you would not turn down compliments from a happy customer."

The young courier looked to the floor and chuckled, shuffling his feet. "Gee, that would be very kind of you, miss. I'm still new at this sort of work. A good word with my boss would sure go a long way."

Sadie forced a giggle as though he had told her the funniest joke she had ever heard. Without another word, she shoved a pen and paper into his hands. She meant business.

When the courier had written down his employer's address, and Sadie had signed for the letter, the young man left _The Sketch's_ offices in giggly state. Edith, having watched this entire exchange from her office, rushed to her secretary's desk once he was gone.

"Well? You got it?"

"Sure did, boss!" Sadie nodded proudly.

"Excellent work, Sadie. Hold onto that address. But first things first: I want to see that letter."

The cream envelope was torn open within seconds and inside was the dried hyacinth and two pages, neatly folded. Edith fiddle with the pages and read aloud so Sadie could hear:

 _My darling,_

 _I went to the opera last night. In my mind, you were there next to me, looping your arm through mine, dressed in something sequined and divine, leaning against my shoulder and whispering critiques and observations to me through the music. In my mind, we chatted during the intermission, sipping cocktails and teasing one another in a world all our own, and you fiddled with my white tie in that intimate way those who have been intimate often do. In my mind, we skipped the second act and drove home, eager to make music of our own. In my mind, you woke up next to me and sleepily told me you loved me and I realized I had never been happier._

 _As I write this, I feel foolish. None of that happened. I went to the opera alone, you were not by my side, you were not dressed in something sequined and divine, we did not sip cocktails or skip the second act, we did not make love until the small hours of the morning. I realized I have never been unhappier._

 _As I write this, I am aware that there is no one to blame for this but myself. I threw it all away. The look on your face as I left will haunt me as long as I walk this earth, and certainly long after I leave it. There is no excuse for what I did, no justification that will take the pain away. I hurt you, and I am eternally sorry._

 _I would give anything, any sum of money, any possession, even my very life, to go back to that day and choose to stay with you. I have wished this every single second since that day._

 _My only hope now is that you have forgotten me and the pain I caused, that you have found love in the arms of a more deserving man, that you are happy and blessed and not burdened by what I did._

 _My darling, I am sorry. The fault rests with me._

 _Always,_

 _Your Gentleman_

The semi-catharsis that always seemed to coincide with the Admirer's letters had taken hold of Edith and Sadie. They were in a puddle on the floor, far too overcome to even bother with trying to keep the tears at bay.

"My god, who is this man?" Sadie asked, bewildered as she wiped her cheek with her palm. She had certainly _never_ met a man like this; she would have snagged him in a heartbeat if she had.

Edith sniffled and tried to focus on the investigative journalism at hand. "I'm not sure. But I'm going to find out."

* * *

Author's Note: Okay, so I lied. It won't be a two-shot. I think one or two more chapters ought to do it. Hopefully, I'll have the story done by tomorrow! Thanks to all for your comments for the first chapter! You all are just wonderful :D


	3. Lady Hunter

By the time Edith and Sadie located Royal Courier Services, Inc., a small corner shop that was almost inconspicuous to the commuters walking past it, the doors had been locked and the delivery boys had been sent on their final run of the day. There was always tomorrow, they figured.

Edith sent Sadie home and hailed a cab for herself. It had started to drizzle and unlike most proper Englishwomen, she was sans umbrella. She and Sadie had left their office in such a rush, she had left it behind. As the drizzle turned to rain and trickled down the glass of the cab, her thoughts, as they often did, turned to the Admirer.

She was drawn to him, unquestionably. Most of her female readers were; this wasn't noteworthy by any means. There was something about his anonymity that was intriguing, perhaps even intoxicating. Hidden behind ink, she could imagine whomever she liked on the other end of that typewriter. Her mind could supply any person. Any man out of millions.

And yet, it supplied only one. The Admirer's words were familiar, his way of stringing them together reminding her of someone she had known long ago. And how he spoke of wronging his poor darling, how he left her…well, it left Edith with a vague sense of déjà vu. It was as if she had heard it all before, as if she had read his letters before they even made their way to her desk.

"That'll be three quid, miss," the cabbie said, jolting Edith from her reverie. She nearly jumped before remembering where she was and what she was doing.

Edith handed him a handful of coins from her purse and stepped into the rain towards her townhouse. She craned her neck to look up at the brick building and beyond to the dark clouds overhead, letting the rain run down her cheeks.

On second thoughts, perhaps she had just wished it had been _him_. It was silly to imagine that the man who had left her at the altar would ever write such beautiful, soulful letters to her years later. The heart he had left in pieces simply wanted an apology, or even the feeling of being desired all these years. There was little else to explain.

And yet, after Edith made her way inside and changed into warm clothes and started a fire on this chilly, spring evening, she found herself rereading old copies of his letters and wondering if the writer was who she secretly hoped it would be.

* * *

The next morning, Edith telephoned Sadie and told her that she was not coming into the office, that she was in the field today hunting for their secret letter writer.

Donning a pleated navy skirt and a loose cream blouse, Edith made her way back to the inconspicuous courier shop. She thought it fitting that a man who did not want to be known would choose a courier that did not want to be found; the building blended in with the others around it; it didn't even have a sign out front. One might not have seen it if one hadn't been looking for it in the first place.

Stepping inside, she walked up to the clerk with a gentle smile on her face. If her mother had taught her anything, it was that a woman's charms could get her the moon if used properly. Edith wasn't sure if she possessed any of the requisite charms, but she was damned sure going to try.

"Good morning, sir," she said to the clerk, a young, gangly boy just a hair past eighteen.

"Morning, miss," he replied, blushing just a touch around his neck when he saw this Venus grace his store. "What can I do for you?" His voice was nearly a squeak.

"I was hoping you'd be able to help me with an urgent matter," she began as she pulled out an envelope from her bag. It contained the hyacinth and a copy of the Admirer's letter, but the envelope was new, conveniently omitting _The Sketch's_ name. "You see, this letter was delivered to my office by mistake, and I'm awfully concerned that the sender would want it to get to the appropriate recipient as soon as possible."

The clerk's blush faded to a blanche. It was terribly bad form for a courier service to deliver a letter to the wrong recipient.

"I'm s—so sorry, miss," he stuttered, reaching for the letter to inspect it. The clerk was surprised to see that there was no real recipient at all. It merely read: _To the Editor-in-Chief._ Curious.

"It was delivered yesterday to the offices of _The Sketch_ by a Mr. Hammond. Perhaps he has a chart or a ledger of some kind that can link the letter with the original sender?"

"Of course! That would be Charlie. He just returned from a delivery. I'll ask to see his return slips. When someone signs for a parcel, a copy is sent to the original sender so they know that we have delivered it, and we keep a carbon copy as well. "

"Excellent. But if you wouldn't mind, perhaps you could expedite the search along? I'm sure the original sender was anxious enough to use a courier service, and will likely be in a sorry state if the letter hasn't actually been delivered at all."

"You're quite right, miss. I'll send Charlie out immediately so that we can correct this oversight. Is there anything else I can do for you, miss?"

Edith smiled at him; she had gotten what she came for. "Not at all. You've been very helpful," she told him before slipping out of the courier shop and finding a spot on an adjacent bench where should could keep an eye out for a Mr. Charlie Hammond on a mission to right wrongs.

Barely ten minutes had passed before the young delivery boy she recognized from yesterday came barreling out of the courier shop with a messenger bag over his shoulder and a look on his face like he had just received a scolding. As he threw his leg over his bicycle, Edith felt a momentary twinge of guilt for Charlie, but she, too, was on a mission and sometimes that meant getting one's hands dirty.

She rushed over to a cab and instructed him to follow the boy on the bicycle, whatever the cost. Winding through London's narrow streets, Charlie Hammond led them to Kensington, where rows of townhouses were sandwiched together in the poshest way. Edith slipped the cabbie a ten pound note and ducked behind a parked car, pencil and notepad at the ready.

This was it. This was where the Admirer lived.

She couldn't have calmed the butterflies going mad in her stomach if she tried.

Charlie was waiting outside Number 27 Stratford Terrace, a brick building with white stone and gingerbread along every bay window, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waited for his second scolding of the day from the butler; homes such as this one were always staffed with a butler.

But no scolding came. Charlie waited, and Edith watched him waiting, for nearly five minutes before the former gave up and the latter slumped against the Rolls Royce providing her cover.

Although this was a setback, Edith figured that at least she knew the Admirer's address. That in itself could uncover so much. But the investigative reporter inside of her itched for more. She was already here; might as well make the most of it.

Checking once again to make sure that the coast was clear, she tiptoed towards a gate and unlatched it. It was heavy and cold in her hands and it creaked loudly as she slipped past it. Following a worn brick pathway, Edith found herself in his garden. It was still brown and filled with dead leaves and naked branches, but there were little buds of perennials peaking through the earth that signaled that new life was on its way.

Propped up against the edge of the house was a pile of empty crates, no doubt used by the last gardener before winter took its hold over England. Edith grabbed one and positioned it under a window, standing on it to peer inside.

As luck or fate or the Almighty would have it, Edith had happened upon the Admirer's study. Or, perhaps from the look of it, his library, for there were walls of bookshelves crammed to the brim with books. In fact, there were books everywhere in that room, on every flat surface, in stacks and spread out on tables. The Admirer, it appeared, was a bookworm.

She wouldn't dare say that the room looked familiar, but she couldn't help the feeling of familiarity she had as her dark eyes scanned the study. The antique globe tucked in the corner, the oriental rug worn in parts from pacing, the ledger left open on the desk: whether she wanted to admit it or not, it all reminded her of the library in Locksley. Anthony's library.

Shaking that absurd feeling away, Edith continued to observe, scribbling notes about the room and everything in it. She smirked to herself when she saw a cluster of dried, purple hyacinths on top of a handkerchief on his desk. Any doubt that she had that this was where the Admirer lived had vanished in an instant.

Satisfied that she had committed enough felonies that day, Edith decided that she ought to return to the office and come back tomorrow, hopefully when someone was home. She'd need time to formulate a plan of attack as to how she'd introduce herself to the Admirer and convince him to let her write a story about him and his love letters.

Just as Edith was about to hop off the crate, she heard a man's voice coming from somewhere inside the townhouse. It was getting louder and closer and she could almost make out his words.

"Jennings, have you seen my glasses? Jennings?" the man shouted to his apparently empty home. No one replied to him.

When the doors to the study started to open, Edith ducked her head down, just barely peaking above the bottom of the window for a glimpse of London's most mysterious man.

As he made his way through the doors, Edith had to cover her mouth to stop the gasp that started to leave it. Walking casually through his study as if he weren't the most talked-about man in London, as if he hadn't bared his soul to the world, as if he didn't still love Edith Crawley with all his heart, was Anthony Strallan.

His blond hair was thinner and his skin was more wrinkled and his green, tweed suit hung loosely from his tall frame. He looked like he had lived a hundred years since their failed wedding.

"Hmm, never mind," he mumbled to himself as he found a pair of glasses on the coffee table. "Here they are. Silly buggers."

Slipping the glasses into his breast pocket, Anthony started to leave his study, but before he reached the door, he stopped in his tracks. He didn't turn his head or his eyes and he didn't say anything; but it was if he had felt something. Something he hadn't felt in years.

A shiver ran through him, and as soon as it passed, he shook his head as if dismissing something, and closed the door to his study.

Once he was gone, Edith slumped against the side of his home and slid to the wet ground. Her skirt became damp and covered in leaves and dirt and twigs. She could not have cared less. A million questions stampeded through her mind all at once, but she was too in shock to process any of them or give any one question the attention it deserved.

Anthony was the Admirer. And she was his Darling.

Was this a dream? Surely, there could be no other explanation for this, for his behavior, for the fact that she had been reading his letters for nearly a year.

Decades later, Edith would describe the next following moments as ones filled with moxie: pure nerve and determination and a thirst for answers at any cost. She hoisted herself from the wet earth, not stopping to brush the twigs or dead leaves from her pleated skirt, and stomped through the gates towards the front door.

She yanked on the doorbell three times, hoping that those inside would hear the insistence in those three rings and become aware of the hellfire was about to rain down on them.

And then, she waited.

* * *

Author's Note: Don't hate me for the cliffhanger! I promise and swear and pledge that the final chapter will be up tomorrow! You have my word :D

As always, thank you to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter. You are, without a doubt, the best readers around!


	4. Red Tulips

As soon as the door opened and Edith was mere inches from her former fiancé, she didn't even wait for him to utter the words forming in his mouth before unleashing all that she felt. It seemed that it had been brewing since their wedding; what she discovered in the garden was only the catalyst.

"You!" she shouted so loudly that it was quite possible that the whole of London had heard her.

As he realized that the woman he had been pining over for two years was standing on his doorstep, Anthony went white, as if he had seen a ghost. "L—Lady Edith, what a pleasant surprise," Anthony stammered ineloquently, clutching the doorknob until his knuckles went as white as the rest of him. He had a feeling about what brought her to his doorstep today of all days, but he sincerely hoped he was mistaken.

"No!" she spat. "Do not add my title as if we weren't once minutes away from becoming husband and wife. Do not add my title when you've been calling me your darling in those wretched, intimate, beautiful letters for almost a year."

There was rage seething in her dark eyes, and twigs and leaves all over her skirt and blouse. She looked feral, and it unnerved him. He had never seen her like this.

"I'm sorry, truly, for causing you any embarrassment. But—ah—would you allow me the chance to explain?" he pleaded with her, daring to take a step forward. He counted it as a small victory when she did not back away.

Edith stared at him and wanted to hate him. There was still so much unspoken about their wedding and why he left the way he did. But most of all, Edith hated that even after humiliating her, after giving her no explanation for his actions on that fateful day, even after keeping her in silence for almost two years, he still loved her. Perhaps more now than he did before.

She wanted to hate him. She had every right to; no one would think less of her for it. And yet, as she watched the way a nervous tremor ran through him and the way his bright blue eyes begged her not to go, she realized that she didn't hate him. Not even a little bit.

"Fine," she muttered as the rage in her eyes receded.

Anthony held in a relieved sigh. Gathering his wits, he stepped aside from the door and motioned for her to enter his home. "The—uh—the library is the second door on the right," he mumbled as he followed behind her, smelling her perfume, watching her navy, pleated skirt flow around her legs. How many times had he imagined her gracing the floors of his home? How many times had he imagined taking her in the library, too enamored with her to make it back to their bedroom? She was so close now, and still so far…

"How did you manage to find me?" he wondered aloud as he watched her walking around his home. He was mesmerized by her.

Edith stepped inside the library and inspected it. "Courier service," she said without looking up at him, her gaze and her hand fixated on the large, weathered globe in the corner of the room. "For someone who spent time in the clandestine service during the War, you're terrible at covering tracks, Anthony."

He couldn't take his eyes off of her. "Perhaps, this time, I wanted my tracks to be uncovered…"

Her eyes darted to him, but they didn't stay there long; the way he stood in the middle of the room, staring at her with that adoring gaze she had last seen two years ago, unnerved her. She hastily changed the subject.

"This looks an awful lot like your library in Locksley." There was a hint of nostalgia in her voice, as if she were stuck in a memory with him, spending days reading and debating and falling in love with him in that old, gingerbread estate of his.

"I had a lot of things brought down from Yorkshire," he explained, "when I moved back to London about a year ago."

She had been forcing herself to stare at his bookshelves, running her fingers absentmindedly along the spines, but her gaze snapped to him when he said this. That was when the letters began arriving on her desk. "What made you move to London?"

He stepped closer to her; they were mere yards away. "You," he murmured, his good hand almost reaching for her. When her mouth dropped in shock, he continued. "I was here on business and saw you one afternoon. You were at that tea shop near Regent's Park. I saw you through the window, sipping some tea and delighting in something you were reading. I almost went inside. I wish I had. It was the first time I had seen you since I…well…in a year. I hadn't known you were in London, but after seeing you there and discovering your magazine, I realized that, even if it meant that I might run into you just once, I wanted that chance. I never dreamed that I'd see you as often as I did. Our circles are apparently very small and very close."

Edith's mind hearkened back to the Admirer's first letter: _I saw you yesterday, drinking tea and looking lovelier than I remember. Every ounce of my being urged me to step into that café, to fall at your feet, to atone for what I have done. But that smile on your face as you read the newspaper…it was a happy smile. You were happy. And who was I to plague you with my darkness yet again?_

She sat down on the sofa; she wasn't sure what else she should do or say. "Anthony…your letters, the wedding, all of it," Edith whimpered, tears burning in her eyes. She looked up at him and demanded honesty. "You wrote those impossibly beautiful letters…"

The baronet stiffened and he pulled at his collar. "I—I did. The first one…it was a mistake. After I saw you at that café, I took to this room and…indulged in some of my father's old scotch. I couldn't stop myself from writing what I wrote at that point."

Edith turned her gaze towards the window to peer into the garden she had just recently trespassed; she gnawed at her lower lip. "And the ones after that? Were you drunk when you wrote those, too?"

"No. Absolutely not. I meant _every_ word of them. I wanted to talk to you so badly. You were my best friend, Edith, and I missed you more than I ever thought it possible to miss another human being. Those letters…they were my only way of talking to you, of pretending that you were still in my life, even when you weren't."

There was something about his sincerity that set her off. She was on her feet then, pacing wildly around the library.

"You mean to tell me that the same man who left me humiliated at the altar has fantasized about our children running through a field around our home, about flirting with me during an opera, about making love to me until the morning?" she shrieked. The tears had won the battle and were now rolling down her cheeks, leaving dark stains along her skin. "Because the man who left me certainly wouldn't continue to love me or fantasize about me or write me bloody anonymous letters that he knew I'd print in my own magazine!"

When it was all laid out like that, so bluntly, Anthony Strallan realized what a fool he had been.

"I shouldn't have sent those letters," he mumbled as he inched closer to her; she had her back against one of his bookshelves, leaning against it for support, breath entering and leaving her body at a rapid pace. "I can see now that it has upset you. I'm so sorry, Edith."

He was close enough now that she could smell him, that light scent of sandalwood soap and paper that always seemed to linger on him. It had been so long since she had smelled it last. It was just as intoxicating as she had remembered.

"They didn't upset me," she whispered in spite of herself; the tears had abated and all that was left of them were streaks dried onto her cheeks. "I imagined you writing them, Anthony. All women seemed to imagine some long-lost lover writing them anonymous letters, and I was no different. I wanted it to be you. I wanted you to be the one writing me after all this time. It's ridiculous, I know."

"It's not ridiculous. And I will never be able to apologize enough. For the wedding, for the letters, for all of it. I truly believed that you deserved someone better than the crippled old codger I've become, but that doesn't mean that I love you any less." He inhaled a steeling breath and made sure to look her right in those dark eyes he had missed. "I will always love you, Edith."

Fresh tears blurred her vision and she blinked furiously to keep them at bay. Before she knew it, her hands were pounding on his chest, grabbing fistfuls of the loose tweed that hung from his shoulders, screaming at him as she wanted to two years ago.

"You don't get to love me! You left! You left! You left me there alone!" Edith sobbed, yanking on his shirt until it was too much, until she had no place else to go but his chest. She buried her face against him; her tears dripped down the cotton and soaked it.

Anthony's good arm instinctually wrapped itself around her and pulled her close. The dampness of his shirt, knowing that it was caused by her tears, broke his heart.

"I am forever sorry, Edith," he murmured into her hair, praying to god that she believed him. Soft whispers of his apologies were all she heard for some amount of time only heaven knew; perhaps he was saying it over and over until she believed that he meant it.

Her tears, eventually, were spent. She pulled away from the tight embrace of his good arm to get a better look at him.

"You wrote that you have wished that you could go back to that day and choose to stay."

He solemnly nodded. Leaving that church was the single greatest mistake of his entire life.

"Then stay."

It was all she said. Merely two words that would change everything.

Anthony backed away from her and immediately felt colder for it. "B—but look at the life you've made! You're the editor of a thriving magazine! You're independent and successful and far better off without being tied to some old man."

She stepped closer to him; this was becoming dance, one moving away, the other following. "You don't get to tell me what I want, Anthony Strallan. What you wrote in those letters…I know you aren't happy. You are just as unhappy as I am."

This hit a nerve. "You're unhappy?" he murmured in disbelief. In his mind, all evidence pointed to the contrary: she had blossomed since he left her. His jilting was the causal link between her and her newfound success. It was the only thing that made him feel that his decision was somehow justified.

"I am. There are moments of brief and fleeting happiness, but my life in the past two years has been filled with an ache that won't seem to go away. I thought that a new career and a new city and a new life would dull it, but it has only gotten worse. And you're the reason. I want a life with _you_. Everything else is just secondary."

Anthony could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Even with my arm the way it is and my age and your youthfulness and my homebody mannerisms and your—"

But Edith cut him off by stepping just millimeters from him and wrapping her arms around his neck. She was flush against him, pretending not to delight in the way he unconsciously licked his lips.

"Do you love me, Anthony?"

"Without question," he told her. Loving her had never been the problem.

"And I love you. Everything else ceases to matter."

Brown eyes stared into blue, and a hundred years passed by in a single moment. Whether she kissed him, or he kissed her, ceased to matter.

* * *

Three days later, Edith stretched out across the bed, burrowing her head into the pillow as the morning light woke her and reflected yellow light from the gold band on her left hand. She grinned to herself; seeing that piece of metal on her finger was still foreign, but no less thrilling. She loved every ounce of it and what it meant.

She rolled away from the window towards Anthony's side, hoping that in spite of her aching muscles, they might be able to repeat last night's activities. But his side of the bed was empty. In his place was an envelope. Tied to it, was a single red tulip and printed on its cover, it read: _To Lady Edith Strallan_.

It didn't take long for Edith to devour its contents, just as she had been doing with his letters for nearly a year.

 _My Darling Edith,_

 _We have been married just shy of three days, and already, I feel happier than I have felt in years. I once told you that you had given me back my life. Those words are even truer now than they were when I first spoke them to you. You, my sweetest one, are pure goodness and light in this dreary world, a home for my soul._

 _For over a year, my letters have been accompanied by purple hyacinths. Their meaning could not have been more fitting. They represent sorrow, the deepest need for forgiveness, a plea and a prayer for pardon. Your forgiveness was offered freely and without hesitation, and for that, I ought to have fallen at your feet. I have never been more grateful for any act._

 _Now, as you have undoubtably noticed, a red tulip has taken the place of the hyacinth. Old-fashioned as I am, I wanted you to know that I love you. You deserve to hear that everyday and know that I mean it just as often. Red tulips, as you may know, signify love in its truest form._

 _It's the sort of love I feel for you._

 _Always,_ _  
_

 _Your Anthony_

* * *

Author's Note: I'm so sorry for the delay (especially since I promised I would update sooner). Work got in the way, sadly. I hope that you enjoyed the conclusion in spite of its tardiness!

Thank you to all who read and reviewed this story. I love writing about these two, but your support makes it even more enjoyable :D


End file.
